


Thanks for the Show!

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Drug Use, Exhibitionism, Kink Meme, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1263595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the kink meme prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11099.html?thread=43700315#t43700315</p><p>All work and no play makes Anders a dull boy. Justice doesn't understand the needs of the human body. Anders decides to experiment with a potion from his past with some rather dangerous (but sexy) results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks for the Show!

He extinguished the lanterns and shut the doors, locking them both with more force and anger than he ought to have. He'd been awake now for twenty hours and was pushing his limits. Justice, who was less an active voice and more a heavy feeling of guilt in his breast and the back of his mind, was irritated at the perceived sloth.

"Maker's breath," he muttered, leaning his head against the door, fist pressed against the wood. "Just a few hours of sleep, please, Justice," he begged, though he wasn't sure if the spirit could even hear him anymore.

The anxious irritation he felt most definitely wasn't his own, though.

He stumbled to the back of the clinic, clearing away ingredients and packing up supplies. Restlessness overtook him, a need to write or produce. It was this urge that interrupted his sleep when he could get it. The idea that he wasting so much time when he should be working on his manifesto or helping the refugees. He was reminded of an old line from the Chant of Light.

_The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak._

Justice, who'd only ever had one corporeal form - and honestly how much did that count because Kristoff was a corpse and corpses didn't need silly things like sleep and food - just didn't understand. He needed fuel for his body, rest for his brain, and sex. He definitely needed sex, and the last few years of nothing but his hand (and even that wasn't always a guarantee considering Justice thought that a waste of time as well) was far from satisfactory. He thought if he could get Justice to just listen to him for a single night, he'd be caught up on all the basic needs his human body craved.

A mischievous smile crossed his lips, and there was an apprehensive stirring in his gut. Perhaps Justice knew what he was thinking, knew he was trying yet again to convince him that he currently had better things to do than focus on his clinic duties or his manifesto. It wasn't as if he wanted to shirk them, but Maker couldn't a man get one break in four years' time? So, ignoring the pull in his brain that he really, really should be penning another page or proofreading the other five he'd written earlier, he started mixing a concoction he remembered from his days at the Circle.

First Enchanter Irving had not been amused when Anders laced the evening stew with said concoction. He was even less amused when he discovered forty-seven half-naked and rutting mages in the cafeteria, with a group of templars unsure as what to do with them. In the end, Anders had to write, 'I will not spike the stew with any potion, no matter how funny I think it is,' six hundred times. Karl had massaged his hand after, unable to keep from laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

It smelled amazing, the potion. Like Ferelden in autumn, but without the mud and shit. No, this was crisp and cool, like the air right before a rainstorm. He wondered if it smelled differently to other people, but the second time he'd brewed it, he didn't have time to ask Nathaniel before they were tearing each other's clothing off and fucking like nugs. When the Warden Commander found them the next afternoon, she thankfully didn't ask questions. Regardless of the smell and the science behind it, the fact remained that Anders had only fond memories of using it.

"Bottom's up," he said, dropping four drops on his tongue and chasing it with a glass of water.

He ignored the frustrated ache in his chest, and lay down on his cot, waiting for the effects to sink in.

-

It was hot. So very hot. Which was odd, considering he was pretty sure winter was approaching and the salty breeze coming off the Waking Sea was always chilly. He would have to cover the windows in the clinic soon with the large, thick bear furs he kept as blankets. But right now? It was sweltering. He quickly unbuckled his boots and kicked them off, peeling off sweat-soaked and dirty socks. When was the last time he had a bath? A bath sounded fantastic. But first he needed to get naked. With shaking hands, he opened his coat, gasping as his fingers brushed his chest. His nipples hardened immediately, a feeling of electricity shooting from each nub straight to his groin.

"Oh Maker."

He remembered this, this glorious feeling of hypersensitivity where everything felt just so damn _good._ Very slowly, he took the hem of his shirt and lifted, shivering as he pulled the linen up and over his head. The cool air tickled his skin and he moaned, glad he was sitting down lest he stumble. His cock was already rock hard, begging to be touched. He wanted someone to touch him, anyone. But he was alone. Alone in his clinic and it was late and dark and he hadn't thought to light to the lamps or the few precious candles he had left. Using magic in this state might not be the best idea. He knew he was quickly losing control of himself, so instead he waited until his eyes adjusted.

There was a fluttering in his chest and he brought a hand up as if that would stop it.

And nearly came in his pants.

The sparse hair between his fingers, he could feel each individual curl, shivering as his fingertips brushed over them. Blood pounded in his ears as he closed his eyes, laying back once more on the cot, and started to rub his back against the scratchy linen cloth that normally itched but now felt so indescribably good. He closed his eyes and lights danced behind his eyelids, colors and shapes that he could swear were real. An effect of the drug. If someone else was here now, they would share in the vision. But no one was, unless one counted Justice, but he didn't. The spirit was little more than a thought, a warning that this was stupid, reckless. Pointless.

"Shut up, Justice," he gasped, running his fingertips slowly down his sides. "Mm… Oh that's…"

He licked his lips, gasping as his hands fell to the ties of his pants. He loosened them, then let one hand drop to the cot, gripping the edge, while the other scratched so gently at his stomach. He pulled on the curls of hair that led from his navel lower, teasing himself. Through the darkness, he saw his pants tenting, felt the slight dampness in his smalls. He wanted nothing more than to take himself in hand and just stroke, but damn it, he would make this last. He only wished he had a partner. In fact, a partner, another hand, a hot mouth, it sounded like such a good idea.

The voice in his head urged him not to, but he ignored it. Usually he couldn't do that, giving in to whatever task Justice had him performing next. But not tonight. Tonight he was old Anders, spirit-free and without a care in the world. He stood, shivering as the pants fell slightly down his hips. He made it halfway across his clinic before they were wrapped around his ankles, making it difficult to walk. With a little fumbling, he was able to step out of them, kicking them aside. He would find one of his friends. Isabela, probably. She would help him. She was always willing to help. And maybe next time, she would take the potion with him. Drop it on her tongue and kiss him the way Nathaniel had.

Feeling the chill in the air but ignoring it, he let himself out of the clinic and stumbled down the steps, going on muscle memory more than anything. His vision swam before him, and Darktown with its muted colors became vivid and bright. A large turtle the size of a man crawled out from under a tent and looked at him.

"Oi, mate, you drunk?"

Anders spared a glance. The man-turtle was looking at him in concern, and he merely laughed. "You're a turtle," he said, and there was a sharp stab in his chest that nearly sent him to his knees. "Damn it, Justice!" he cried. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The man-turtle quickly retreated into his house. Tent. Thing. And Anders managed to continue forward, gripping a wooden banister that he used to propel himself forward out of Darktown. The Hanged Man was around somewhere. He knew it. He just had to get his bearings. The stone under his feet, normally so hard and unforgiving, set his soles aflame with pleasure. It was the oddest sensation, and he just wanted to lie down and roll against it. It felt like sandpaper beneath his toes, but he craved it.

"No," he muttered. "Isabela. She's… soft. And pillowy."

He wanted to bury his face in her cleavage and never come out. She would let him, too. She was a good friend. He wound his way through the dark, ignoring the calls of the others in Lowtown. They were just jealous he was going to see his buddy Isabela and finally slake his lust. One good night. One good night of sex and maybe wine and then sleep and he'd be able to focus on whatever Justice wanted.

"Damn it, Justice!" he swore, swaying a bit.

The wind whipped at his skin and he realized he didn't have a shirt on, but he was still aflame with desire and need. But no one but Isabela would do. His mind was set on her. Or Merrill. Her place was close. And while he didn't agree with her blood magic, she was a mage. She would understand. Maybe he could get to Hightown and finally speak with Hawke about whatever it was that was brewing between them.

"No. Hightown's that way and too far."

That was decided then. Isabela would do. His hands scratched at his thighs and his cock jumped interestedly, wanting, needing attention. But he didn't want to go at this solo. He wanted a partner. Just for one night. He felt a tug in his brain, a desire to return to the clinic.

"DAMN IT, JUSTICE! I SAID NO!"

"Blondie?"

Anders whirled unsteadily, putting a hand up against a wall. "Varric!" Varric was his friend. He hadn't even thought about the dwarf. Varric would help him. He wasn't like the other dwarves, not like Oghren who was dirty and stank and always had food in his beard. "You're a dwarf!"

Varric raised an eyebrow. "How drunk are you?" he asked, taking off his coat.

"Chest hair," Anders pointed out, poking a finger in Varric's general direction.

Varric handed him his coat. "Put that on."

"Your coat won't fit me, Varric."

But he didn't argue further as Varric wrapped it around him. It was way too small and barely covered anything. Anders leaned into the hand at the small of his back as Varric led him down another alley.

"I wanted to see Isabela," he explained, raising his hands and grabbing at the air. "She has nice breasts."

Varric chuckled. "Very drunk."

"I'm not! Haven't had any alcohol in… ever. And when I do! Oh Varric, it's a waste. It's like, the more I drink the sober-er I get because this Maker damned spirit-" Another tinge in his chest. "GO AWAY, JUSTICE!" he yelled, causing Varric to jump.

"Blondie, shush."

"Hey, this is the Hanged Man! This is where I wanted to go! Varric, you're such a good friend, you really, really are. Really. Truly."

Varric sighed and led him upstairs, ignoring the looks from Corff and the patrons. Once safe in his suite, Varric shut and locked the door. Anders immediately let the coat drop and fell to his knees in front of the fireplace, running his hands over the bear-skin rug.

"It's so soft," Anders murmured, moving back and forth. He flopped onto his side, then gingerly rolled to his front. "Oh. Oh…"

Varric frowned, watching him hump the rug, his smalls stretching, the band threatening to fall over his hips as he pushed forward. Swallowing hard, averting his eyes from the sight of his friend getting off on his rug, he sat at his table and poured himself a mug of ale.

"Andraste's dimpled ass, Blondie, what did you take?"

Anders muttered something that sounded foreign. Varric had no idea what it was.

"I like your rug," he whispered, and rolled to his back.

 _Fuck,_ Varric thought, mug half-way to his lips.

Anders was watching the flames, spread out on the rug, legs apart. One hand was pinching and rolling a nipple, the other slipping down beneath the band of his smalls. Varric watched as he gripped himself, tugging, and swore out loud when Anders freed himself from the restraining fabric. Anders really was beautiful. Pale skin, pink lips, a dusting of chest hair. Dark curls between his legs, his erection slick with precome, begging to be sucked.

Varric felt his own cock stirring, and ignored it. Anders gasped with each stroke, thumb coming up and over the soft mushroomed head once, then again. Plaintive, needy noises escaped his lips, back bowing as he thrust up into his hand. Varric had no idea what Anders took, but it was obvious he wasn't just drunk. Lyrium wouldn't affect him this way and withdrawals caused confusion and weepiness, not this. Not that Varric was complaining.

"Varric," Anders gasped, and Varric closed his eyes for a moment, committing both the noise and Anders' face to memory. "Varric, I need help."

If Varric thought for a second that Anders had been in his right mind, begging him to be fucked, to be sucked, he would be on the floor in a minute, mouth wrapped around that delicious looking cock. But he wouldn't take advantage of his friend like this. Suddenly he was very, very glad he found Anders first. As much as he loved their friends, how many of them would have been able to deny Anders when he was like this? Fenris, perhaps. The elf would sooner cut it off than let Anders' cock anywhere near him. But Isabela? Hawke?

No, it was best that Varric had found him in his inebriated state, wandering Lowtown in just his smalls, which left nothing to the imagination, Anders' not insubstantial member straining the fabric. Varric had to admit, he preferred dwarven women, but human men. And Blondie was the right mix of vulnerability, beauty, and intrigue that made for a great tragic hero. And he was begging to be touched, writhing in front of him. Varric cursed his own scruples, and took another drink.

"It's okay, Blondie," he said quietly, as Anders thrust again into his own hand. "Whatever you need."

"I need… want to get fucked," he begged, shoving his smalls down his hips. He flipped over, shoulders down, ass in the air. One hand snaked around to his back, sliding down, finger moving between the cleft of his cheeks. "Please…"

The Maker was testing him, Varric knew it now. He watched Anders spread himself, one dry finger pressing against his hole as he whined. Varric struggled with a decision. If he didn't touch Anders, it wasn't technically taking advantage. That in mind, he stood and crossed the room to the cedar chest next to his bed. He shifted a few papers and lifted the false bottom, withdrawing a pot of pine scented Orlesian oil and a polished wooden phallus. As far as he knew, Isabela was the only one who knew it was there. She would, considering she bought it for him as a gag gift a few years ago. He wondered if she knew how often he used it.

"Blondie, here," he said, opening the pot and dipping the toy in before setting them both next to Anders.

Anders' eyes widened. "Oh!"

Varric sat the foot of the bed, dangerous as how close he was now. The table was across the room, safer. Now, a mere few feet separated them with nothing in between. Varric removed his belt, boots, socks and shirt and sat back a bit further in bed, not trusting himself to remove his pants.

 _Nothing wrong with watching,_ he told himself.

But now at this angle, he couldn't see properly. He cleared his throat.

"Blondie," he said gently. "Show me that gorgeous ass."

Anders whimpered and repositioned himself, ass facing Varric now as he grabbed a handful of the lotion. There was no finesse as he tried to bring fingers to hole again, missed twice, and moaned like a whore getting paid double as he found his target. Varric felt the sweat beading on his forehead as two fingers were shoved inside, then a third.

"Holy Maker, Blondie…"

"I'm not… I'm not an abomination," Anders said quietly, as if he was finishing a thought from earlier.

"No, oh hell no," Varric said, though he did spare a thought for Justice, wondering again just what Anders took in order to shove the spirit far away enough to allow this.

A fourth finger, and Varric marveled at the flexibility of humans. Or perhaps it was just Anders. His cock twitched insistently, and he still ignored it.

"I need," Anders whined. "Can I please?" The fingers of his free hand groped for the phallus.

"Yes," Varric said, watching intently.

Anders groaned as he removed his fingers and took up the toy. He pressed it to his entrance. Gasping, he shoved it forward slowly.

"Oh, oh Maker, oh please."

Varric thought he would get off just on the noises Anders was making. And when an inch of the toy was pushed inside, he gave another order.

"Lay on your back so I can see you."

Anders did, flipping over, rubbing against the rug again. He looked a sight, smalls pushed halfway down his thighs, one hand gripping the toy, the other now around his cock, holding tightly. His mouth was open, eyes wide, pupils fully dilated. Firelight danced across the sweat-slicked skin and Varric thought he'd never seen a more decadent, more deliciously depraved display. He wanted to lick him from head to toe, stopping to lavish attention on that cock which begged to be touched.

"Get it all the way in," Varric ordered, his voice hoarse and heavy with lust.

Anders whimpered and brought his knees back to his chest, hooking an arm under them. Varric's fingers curled in restraint. There was nothing stopping him from stripping down, removing the toy and taking Anders just like that. Anders cried out as the toy brushed his prostate, almost fully inside him now. The flared bottom ensured it wouldn't go too far and accidentally hurt him.

"Touch yourself. You deserve it."

"Yes," Anders moaned. "Yes. I deserve…"

He lowered his legs and Varric watched him clench against the toy, cock in both hands now as he stroked quickly. His hips thrust forward and a string of some language Varric couldn't understand spilled from his lips in a babble. With every thrust, his ass thumped against the rug, and he was rocking quickly, unable to keep a normal, controlled rhythm as the combined stimulation plus whatever drug coursed through his system brought him to completion.

"VARRIC!" he screamed as he came over his hands, shuddering and shaking.

Varric closed his eyes, breathing a moment before opening them again. Anders was bringing his hands to his lips, licking the come from his fingers. Varric let out a quiet whimper. Tonight's activities would be fantasy material for months to come. When he was satisfied his hands were clean enough, Anders dragged them through the rest of the mess on his stomach and then flopped back to lay prone on the rug. Varric would have to have it specially cleaned, but he didn't care. Anders reached back and gripped the phallus, pulling it out an inch or so and then thrusting it back in.

"Maker's breath, Blondie," Varric whispered.

"I don't want it to stop, Varric," Anders whined. "I never… Justice never… Please, please… Just… Fuck me once. Please. Oh, Maker. I need to be touched."

Varric licked his lips. "No. Maybe… when you're not… whatever it is."

Anders looked at him, almost as if he was going to cry. "Please!"

"Take the toy in hand," Varric ordered, pleased when Anders did. "Slide it out. Almost all the way."

Anders's eyes widened at the instructions, and he did as he was told.

"And slowly press it in. Slower. Good. Again. Out and in."

Anders' hips moved in anticipation as Varric continued to give instructions, how to move, what to do with his hands, to lick his fingers and flick a nipple, then twist and pinch hard. To cup his balls and roll them gently. Add more lotion to the toy and thrust harder. Harder now. Anders was writhing, begging him at the end of it, cock hard again and aching. 

"Now stroke yourself as you imagine me beneath you, thrusting inside you."

"Oh yes… yes, Varric you feel so good, ah… Maker! Fuck!"

"You like it, Blondie? You like it when I fuck you?"

"Yessss," Anders hissed, thrusting with the toy now, eyes shut tightly, other hand around his cock, pumping furiously. "More, more, Varric. Harder. I can take it, Maker please!"

"Anything you want," Varric purred. "Anything for you."

"Yes! Oh, oh…I'm… Fuck…"

Varric watched for the second time that night as Anders came, watched as he spilled over his hand and stomach, face screwed up in in pleasure, mouth open in a silent scream, sweaty strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

"Mm. Blondie."

"Varric," Anders breathed, coming down. "Varric…"

"I'm here."

Anders opened his eyes slowly, head falling to the side. "I'm tired, Varric," he whispered. "So… tired."

"Go to sleep."

"Made a mess of your rug," he said, and Varric wanted to kiss those pouting lips.

"It's fine. I'll have Hawke skin me another."

"Okay, good," Anders agreed, and yawned, before falling asleep, hand still wrapped around his slowly softening cock, the toy still inside him.

Varric shook his head slowly and moved to the privy where he wanked quickly and quietly, relieving the discomfort between his legs. Filling a basin with water from the pump in the corner, he knelt next to Anders, avoiding the mess. Carefully he wiped the sweat from his friend's face, then cleaned the come from his chest, stomach and fingers. As clinically as he could, he cleaned his genitals and removed the toy, giving Anders' hole a cursory wipe. The man would have to deal with the rest of that in the morning. Thinking a moment, he made a decision and slid the smalls from Anders' thighs and held them delicately between his fingers. With a smirk, he tucked them under his mattress. 

_You're a pervert,_ came a voice that sounded like his conscience.

 _Why yes. Yes, I am, thank you,_ his ego replied with confidence.

He tossed the toy in the basin and closed up the pot, returning that to the chest. Taking cloth and basin and setting it aside, he rolled Anders to his side and laid down a sheet, folding it to shield him from any wet spots, and then shook out a blanket over top of him.

Anders muttered something about Grey Wardens, let out a snore, and slept on. Varric changed into a long nightshirt and climbed into bed. He slept very well.

-

"What in the Maker's good name…"

Varric woke quickly, sitting up. Anders was sitting as well, palm pressed to his forehead. A blue light emitted from his hand and he healed whatever hangover he was experiencing. A knock on the door and both of them looked over. Varric reacted first, climbing from bed and opening the door to take the coffee and breakfast tray from Edwina with thanks. He set it on the table and turned to look at Anders, who had an expression of horror on his face.

"Varric," he choked out.

"Morning, Blondie."

"Varric, where are my pants?"

Varric shrugged, pouring himself a cup of coffee and then, as an afterthought, poured one for Anders as well. "Potentially somewhere in Lowtown. Or maybe Darktown."

"…Varric why are my pants anywhere but on me?"

"You tell me, Blondie."

Anders' eyes widened in realization and remembrance. "Oh Maker!" he groaned, pulling his blanket covered knees to his chest and dropping his forehead to them. "Oh shit…"

Varric chuckled. "That about sums it up, I think. Look. I think Hawke has some clothes here, leftover from the last time he came up covered in Darktown slime. Never be unprepared or something to that effect. I think they'll fit you."

Anders hadn't lifted his head, and Varric could see the tips of his ears redden. "I am so sorry," he said, his voice muffled.

"It's fine, Blondie. But next time…"

"There won't be a next time," Anders said, lifting his head, strands of hair fluttering around his face. He looked mortified, but the dark circles under his eyes had lessened somewhat, and he appeared altogether more relaxed. Sated and happy. "Ever."

"Shame," Varric said, handing him the cup of coffee. "I rather enjoyed the show."

He laughed at Anders' mortified cry, sipping his own coffee as Anders once again, covered his face in shame and embarrassment.


End file.
